[*MATURE CONTENT*]
I have become a hazard to your
porcelain daydream.
Crying tears of sawdust only to fill your pockets with broken glass.
A stigma so indelible
You could direct in a sex scene and
Sell it on T.V.
What are you doing here?
I became addicted to the memory of when she carved her initials into my emotions,
And called it inspiration.
Then sold it as a peacock feather
To the color blind sobstory
Staring in bewilderment
At the alabaster ceiling.
Do you still remember?
My tounge learned the taste of satisfaction
When she came;
But her hips spoke the
Language of salacious revenge
Too well for me to ever forget.
She said: I love it when you talk fucking filthy to me...
There is no record Pilate ever washed his hands;
So make haste and infect me with
Your carnal philosophy.
We have so many sins to pay for...
Tie my wrists with barbwire to
The chair on the old wooden floor;
I want to flaunt my blood so fast
It comes out blue.
Treachery is how I alienate myself,
Even in my own fantasies.
You need to seek salvation.
Salvation was derived from
The opium poppy and
Sold at triple price with
An alleyway sneer.
We're all dead here in paradise;
Saturnine and saturated.
Will St. Peter call your name?
St. Peter drew the line through it.
©hobbez
H